Tantalus Tales: Fortescue Le Page
by Fox89
Summary: Zidane and company are caught red handed...
1. The Gracious Noble

The Le Page mansion wasn't particularly grand as far as mansions went. Three floors, six bedrooms, and only four statue rooms. This wasn't because the owner wasn't as well of as the other Treno nobles; he just wasn't a greedy man. Fortescue Le Page didn't need a five floor palace with en suite jesters, so long as he had a bed or six and an ancient mosaic over his head at night he was a happy man. He even considered himself quite charitable. Each year when the nightss got cold, old Fortescue would donate a gil or two to a starving child as he wandered past. He once considered letting one of the children stay during these nights, but in the end he considered it impractical: he had scant enough room as it was. He was sure the children preferred the wide open space of the streets. And so, given his generosity; his small, unobtrusive abode; and the few creature comforts he kept around it, imagine his surprise when he came home one day to find himself being robbed!

There were three men, each holding one side of his Van Gaart mosaic. They were stood stock still, a look, not of fear, but of surprise etched across each one of their faces. The man on the left had an odd garment across the top half of his face, the like of which Fortescue had never seen before. His hair was spiked upwards, and sheathed at his side was a sword. The man in the middle was wearing a bandana, and he had a moustache to rival that of Fortescue himself! The Noble noticed that he too, had a sword.

The man on the right looked strange. His shirt and cravat where impeccably neat, but for some reason the whole ensemble had "common" written all over it. His blond hair stuck out from the other two figures, but that's not what Fortescue noticed. It wasn't even the tail which swung calmly above the ground. What Fortescue noticed, was the fact that this man did _not_ have a sword. Unfortunately, he did have a pair of rather sharp daggers, which he felt where more than capable of doing him similar damage. Thankfully for Fortescue, he had been well trained to deal with thieves like these. Step one was to try and gracefully negotiate with them. So, in his politest, most gentlemanly voice he asked the young men if they would do him the courtesy of leaving his possessions where they were and vacating his house.

"What do you think you're doing you common scum?" Fortescue shouted, "Put that down THIS SECOND, or I'll cut you up so small the orphans won't even have to chew!"

The men lowered the art to the ground and drew their weapons. Fortescue was disappointed polite negotiation had failed, but he did not despair, for he was also a master at step two, which was combat itself. Fortescue readied himself for the battle ahead and made the first move. "GUARDS!" screamed the noble at the top of his lungs. As his bodyguards entered the room and drew their own swords, Fortescue bravely cowered behind a nearby cherub statue.

The fat man cowered behind a nearby cherub statue. Zidane stood his ground as the three bodyguards advanced. "Go!" he called to the others, "I'll hold 'em off!"

Blank and Marcus looked at each other for a moment and nodded. They each grabbed a side of the mosaic and ran to the window they had left open when they came in. Meanwhile, Zidane began parrying the strikes dealt by the broadswords of the three bodyguards. He was surprised at their agility given the weight of their weapons, but Zidane was still the quickest of the lot. He turned to the left as one of the swords came down, and it embedded in the ground a few inches away from his feet. Zidane took this opportunity to throw his weight into his attacker, who went tumbling over backwards. Zidane threw his hands out and sprung himself upright again. As he turned he had to duck to avoid a second blade, and then jump over the third. The first man was on his feet again now, and was already busy at not making things any easier for Zidane. A few strikes and dodges later, the youth found himself surrounded by the men. Fighting his way out of this was going to be next to impossible, so he'd have to try and be unpredictable. He sheathed his daggers and raised his hands to indicate surrender. "Gentlemen," he began.

They charged.


	2. The Three Deaths

They charged. He couldn't believe it. These three men with broadswords were charging an unarmed man. That was low. Very low. He'd never seen anything so…LOW!

As the swords swung, Zidane dropped down low onto the cold marble of the floor and rolled through the legs of one of his attackers. The man swung around again, but Zidane had drawn his daggers and could fight again. Beyond the three bodyguards the window lay open; inviting escape, teasing him. Blank and Marcus were long gone. They would have lowered the mosaic out to Cinna on the ground, and with any luck they were halfway back to the ship already. Zidane on the other hand, had more pressing matters as one of the swords came down a matter of inches from lopping a foot off his tail. Zidane blocked and ducked and leaped buy he got backed closer and closer to the wall, until there was no where left to retreat. When his back hit the surface he had his first doubts. Could these men really kill him? Would they? That certainly seemed to be their intention. By now his daggers were no more than white flashes as he flung them left, right, up, down, up again; just to block the barrage of strikes that were raining down on him. The bodyguards were well trained as well. Their broadswords were large, and it was difficult for three men to swing them at one target in such close quarters. Zidane was hoping they'd take each other out, but the men would doge each others strikes with ease, ducking down, stepping to the side and so on, without their own strike rate decreasing.

Zidane's hands were starting to ache. He couldn't keep this up forever. He had to start thinking outside the box. The trouble was, all his energies were concentrating on keeping those swords off him. But he was out of time. If he didn't do something now, he wouldn't be leaving the building alive. With his left hand he reached abve his head and dug his blade deep into the wall. For a moment that just made matters worse, as suddenly he was fighting with one hand. But a moment later he jumped up, and pulled himself up with his left hand. The swords swung at him, but he parried them as his feet planted themselves on the embedded weapon. In the same movement he bent his legs again and leapt forwards, over the tips of the reaching swords, and over the heads of the bodyguards. He rolled as he hit the ground and was halfway to the window before they were moving. He risked a glance over his shoulder. They wern't chasing him! The bodyguards had given up, and were running over to Fortescue to make sure he was alright. In a moment of pure glee he hurdled the window ledge, and was almost out of the alley onto the main street when he realised his mistake.

The men wern't running towards him.

They were running towards Fortescue.

Fortescue was next to the door.

The door which led to the street.

It was too late to stop. Zidane's momentum was going to take him past the last few bricks of cover the wall was offering. So he dived forwards again, as steel flashed and three broadsword blades came out of nowhere, like chicken wire ready to slice him up. One blade was low, one was waist height and the other was neck height. Zidane's jump was between the top two. He felt the cold press of metal on his back and his front as he squeezed between them, and the feel of concrete under his hand as he went into his roll was relief. He heard the guardsbehind giving chase, but Zidane had momentum, and he knew how quick he was. It was a straight dash to the Treno gates and then a few hundred yards to the Prima Vista; but he had escaped.

The grand theatre ship pulled up into the mist once more. Blank, Marcus, and Cinna had locked the treasure away in the storage room. Cinna came over with a mug of steaming coffee. "Here," he said, "This'll give you some energy back." Zidane gulped the piping hot liquid gratefully. Immediately he felt better, although he wished he hadn't poured so much boiling water down his throat at onece. "You just wait 'till I get some hands on some _proper_ coffee! The nobles back there in Treno have some good stuff."

"Shut up, Cinna," said an exhausted Zidane. "So," he added, "Where's this mosaic going to? Our hideout?"

"Nah," said Blank, "This baby's gonna make us a lot of gil. There's an artist in Lindblum who'll pay a lot for this."

"Artist…Lowell?"

Blank laughed. "Lowell's the actor. Protentious git, we'd never nick anything for him. The artist we're giving this to has a studio in the theatre district."

Zidane nodded and layed down on his back. He was tired. It was one hell of a job and he was lucky to be alive. But he was. No point in worrying about the past. Where was the fun without a bit of risk? Some time later his worries were gone. He stood on the deck of the Prima Vista and laughed as he retold his story to the others, and enjoyed the poorly disguised awe on the other's faces. Falcon's gate loomed in the distance as he laughed, and opened wide, to greet the travellers home.


End file.
